


Trying To Save The World (But Never Really Sure)

by callmedok



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Bad Decisions, Body Dysphoria, Comic Book Science, Doppelganger, LGBTQ Themes, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prophetic Visions, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok
Summary: Somewhere along the way, the paths of the Host and Jackaboy Man cross and meet. What starts as an impromptu first meeting leads to them finding themselves more and more involved in the other's life, as well as those Jackaboy finds himself taking care of.





	1. Fall Into That Dark Dark River (That River In My Head)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transiplier](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=transiplier).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bertram Graves, alias the Host, is not an upstanding man. But someday, someday, he could be.
> 
> Story title is from Every Day Superhero by Smashmouth.  
> Chapter title is from Dark River by Sebastian Ingrosso, the normal version.

Bertram Graves changed reality intentionally at twenty-four, by slipping into his own skin.

It wasn't like the little white lies he wrote down that became real, like the dog that actually ate his homework in fourth grade, or the forged notes from his parents to excuse himself in high school that somehow worked perfectly. Not like the same forged signatures on doctor’s forms at seventeen that got him what he needed to feel like himself, or enabled him to open his own bank account at fifteen to deposit the winnings from the first short story contest he ever won.

No, this was him forcing reality to bend to his will. Executing the very plans he’d daydreamed of, writing all the details in code in the margins of school note books and private journals, scrap paper he burned in hopes of setting fire to what lay festering in his chest.

He overwrote things so he had always been Bertram Graves the writer, and never anyone else. He had always been a young man with a life rough around the edges at first glance, with barbed grins and a sharp tongue. Any old photos of him quietly shifted so they aligned better with his current appearance, his hair shorter and clothes darker in hue. Any traces of his old name were replaced silently with the sprawling 'Bertram Graves' he had first used signing a contract with his publisher at twenty, so the person he used to be faded away never to be remembered. All the ink on necessary documents had dried twenty-four years ago when he had been born, and he was himself through and through.

So perhaps it was cheating, in a sense. Taking advantage of his gift to rearrange things, so all he had to concern himself with was the physical side of the matter.

But Bertram Graves wasn't made of money, with only two books under his belt and an inherited cabin to call his home. Even the watch around his wrist with a brass face and leather band had been a gift, another layer to his inheritance besides VHS tapes that had made growing up bearable, a typewriter heavy with memories of his uncle showing him how to switch out the ink ribbon, fix the jammed keys. There was only so much his power could do before it was it was stretched too far, and that was his limit.

(He could change names, memories, even papers as much as he wanted, but flesh...

All he could do was have it mend. It had him out of the hospital in record time, but the aches and bruising still lingered afterwards as he hobbled around, tried not scream when he reached up for something in one of the kitchen cabinets a few days later and pain ripped through his chest because he was an ass sometimes who made bad decisions.)

*

He never meant to let it go to his head.

Never meant to become the Author, a cocky man who believed the world his oyster. But book after book had to be bigger and better than the one before it, grander. Demand was great for his writing, and he _had_ to keep up or he'd be left behind in the dust.

That period of his life led to some of his better horrors, and to some of his... darker indulgences, disguised from himself with focus on everything else in his life at the time. Perhaps it was his self-imposed isolation finally affecting him, leaving him susceptible to thoughts he had considered abandoned. Maybe it was his power coming fully into its own with age, leaving him drunk with all of its myriad possibilities.

Maybe it was the part of him he'd thought strangled the day he finally stepped forward into this new life, rearing its ugly head like some mocking ghost. Returning to eat him alive for his folly, rip him apart for playing with power he still didn’t fully understand while declaring himself something close to god-like.

Whatever the case may be, as the Author he wasn't Bertram Graves.

He was a fool believing in his own mythology, believing his gift meant he was in the right when he decided to use other people as his pawns. And it was that line of thinking that led him to select Daniel Paul Sinclair as his next 'Protagonist'.

It was what had him turning cruel and joyfully mocking, like a cat batting around a mouse before devouring it. He played with Sinclair, all of his perceptions, his very understanding of the world, until the poor man was beaten down and pliant. It was practically euphoric, the day Daniel finally, _finally_ , listened like a good character and obeyed him for the first time by picking up his wallet. This was to be his masterwork, an entire series loosely connected by the same man being first tormented by his dreams and later by reality. It would be his next grand project, the very thing that left him among other literary greats in the world of fiction.

(It's what led to the Author and by proxy Bertram being shot after roping Sinclair's friend Ryan Tinsdale into their dangerous dance, having goaded Daniel one too many times in their game of cat and mouse. Pride goeth before the fall as they say, and oh how he _fell_.)

*

The Host was a strange... melding of sorts, of the Author and of Bertram, when it came down to it.

He had saved his own life so recently, changing his future in a desperate grab that left him recovering from shots to the back, had him paying with his sight for overstepping boundaries where he shouldn’t have. Ended up with his gift shifting, changing, to accomadate for his new needs and restrictions.

He'd been taken in by others like him as he tried to recover, people who shared his face and had gifts of their own, and for that he’d always be indebted. Yet, they were rather a strange group at first glance

The one in charge calling themself Dark could control a strange aura, manipulate perception and memories with disturbing precision, and even distort time so it felt like days passed in the span of ten minutes. Wilford Warfstache, who Bertram recognized as the one who fetched him from the bloodstained floor of his cabin by the cloying scent of cotton candy, was much closer to Bertram’s own reality warping abilities, only ever held back when imagination faltered. Then there was the Google automatons built for destruction who could control technology with a twitch of their fingers, the King with his woodland subjects at his beck and call. Bim Trimmer who could summon a spotlight from nowhere with a snap of his fingers, Silver Shepherd with strength and speed like something out of a comic. The dear Doctor Burkhart who's talent appeared to be primarily healing where the rest of them could only mend, and Ed Edgar who...sold babies, apparently, when he wasn't responsible for maintaining the space expansions on the offices to keep them bigger.

So it was a strange position Bertram found himself in, surrounded by people who were supposedly like him with similar strains of abilities. But this was at least a place where he could continue to write, where he could relearn the depths of his gift safely while relearning himself as well. Where he could heal, even if he was only ever recognized as the Host from now on by those around him.

(There are only two of them that are actually similar beyond the surface, with names abandoned and old photos left to gather dust. That's what had him quietly telling Bim and Burkhart, in one of his moments free of narration, "My name is Bertram, Bertie to my friends."

And if he happens to manipulate a few documents for Bim after a scheduled surgery, changed Burkhart’s medical license to read Minerva instead when she finally found her name? It's his first tentative attempt to help others as he once helped himself, to redeem for the path he once walked.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hold tumblr user transiplier responsible for this story, because they came up with the idea of Jackaboy coming to the aid of trans-spec kids and pretty much adopting them. Then they indulged me with my Author-Host head canons, and it all spiraled out of control from there. I also added in some more of the head canons they indulged me in, so FIGHT ME.
> 
> You can take trans headcanons out of my cold dead questioning hands.
> 
> Next time, we have our introduction to Jackaboy Man, and his super secret origins!


	2. Set My Best Foot Forward (Be All That I Can Be)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jackson Ardghal Gallagher, alias Jackaboy Man, has always tried to be his best. And it's a long road ahead of him, even if he gets an early start.
> 
> Chapter title from The New American Way by the Dropkick Murphys.

Jackson Ardghal Gallagher has always dreamed of being a super hero.

His escape as a kid was reading comics while his ma picked up things at the super market. He'd scamper off to the front area, near the VHS rentals, and pick through the spinning racks. Anything bright and colorful he'd flip through, which resulted in reading a lot of Spider-man, the X-men, Superman. There were even a few yellowed issues of Doom Patrol left tucked in the back of one of the bargain bins for 25 cents each, and they were goofy and weird and he _adored_ them.

He didn't ask for much, a dollar here, a dollar there when his ma could, and from that small fund he bought the back issues of whatever he loved most at the time. He devoured story after story of Peter Parker, Clark Kent, the fantastic X-Men and the strange Doom Patrol. He didn't hide the interest from his ma, how he'd fallen in love with colorful costumes and people who did the Right Thing no matter what. He already tried to face down any bullies at school, and with the Tao of Spider-man to lead the way his efforts increased.

 _'With great power comes great responsibility,'_ and someone had to stand up against the bullies. The ones who knocked lunches to the ground, pushed kids off the jungle gym, made fun of others who sounded funny, looked funny, didn't wear the right clothes or act the right way.

And as someone who spoke too loud, dressed in what his ma could get relatively cheap, was too full of energy to keep still at his desk day in and day out...

Jackson had a personal stake in things, to say the least, and he always would.

(He was a scrappy little bugger who ended up more often than not with scraped knees, gravel or wood chips in his palms, even a bloody lip on one memorable occasion. His ma even got called a few times, but the groundings were worth it because he was doing the Right Thing protecting his fellow kids.)

*

As a teenager, things got all... topsy-turvy, starting with the small meteor that crashed out in the woods near his house.

He'd only caught it because he'd been in the backyard looking up at a meteor shower, through a telescope he'd gotten for his birthday a few months before. Night was when he could steal some time for himself, those long hours that left the world muffled and quiet. He still had that energy inside him, telling him to get up and go, to _run_ as far as his legs could take him, but the telescope helped him stay.

The lure of seeing stars and other planets, maybe even discovering new ones by accident... It was the reason he had star maps on his walls, all the astronomy books he could scrounge up from the used book place. Space made more sense to him than life on Earth did sometimes.

(Especially with the way his stomach twisted when his jeans felt too tight in the legs, his hoodie not baggy enough around his torso. How sometimes he couldn't breathe, his chest too _heavy_ -)

It's a past daydream, hoping and practically longing to be some orphaned child from space like Superman, which has him ducking through the house to grab his keys after he sees it spiraling towards the pecan groves. Stopping to grab his water bottle with the cartoony frogs on it from the fridge, snatching a big bulky flashlight from the junk drawer to light his way where the moon couldn't. The groves were dense this close to the end of the summer, barely any light would get through their branches.

And so he sneaks out like a thief in the night to the woods about a twenty minute walk away, excitement making his stomach churn and biting his nails as his brain rapid fires through everything that could happen. Kryptonian baby is the best scenario currently, with a Xenomorph right out of Alien come to eat his ass as the worst, but he'll take his chances. Either way, he'll get to see a meteor in person rather than just the craters left behind.

The flashlight is great for avoiding the water ditches running through the groves, reflecting off the murky depths. To be honest it feels a little like a horror movie, following the trails of broken branches and splintered trunks while almost jumping at every noise. His hands are shaking, heart pounding in his chest as he follows the giant gouge in the earth, something about the size of a boulder at the end of it.

But he's not a victim, Jackson tells himself as he swings his leg over the edge of the two foot drop to the meteor, which is smoking ominously as water from one of the ditches begins to pool around it.

He's a hero, and this is just his first mission to prove it.

(He learns from the small green eyeball inside, through a link established through some glowing cuff that stuck itself to his wrist, that it was a kind of ship. A miscalculation with their navigation led them into the shower, trying to avoid someone after their research, and now here they were.

 _'Nice to meet you, Jackson._ ' the eyeball said once it had finished explaining, cuff translating the musical hums and fractured images into words. _'My name is Sam. Could you assist me?'_

Call him stupid, but this is close to everything he's ever dreamed of. Of course he says yes.)

*

The powers don't kick in until a few months after he's hidden Sam in his room, scrounged up anything from the ship that could be taken on foot and hidden in his closet. By then Sam is his confidant, maybe even his closest friend, and tended to work on repairing their files and machines when Jackson was stuck in school. Hell, Sam had even helped him out with chemistry a few times, admitting almost shyly that their field back home had been a form of biochemistry.

("Space biochemistry then?" Jackson joked one day, petting Sam on his desk so they purred like a cat. _'I suppose so, Jackson'_ Sam replied with a chirp like a bird, followed up with a sound like blowing bubbles in a soda.)

But that's not the weird thing.

The weird thing is waking up one day, pretty damn sure he's in bed, only to find himself barely a breath away from his nose touching the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He lets out a yelp of surprise as he falls backwards, hits his mattress with a groan of springs that sends him tumbling to the carpet. His mom knocks on his door not even five minutes later, asking if something's wrong.

"I-I'm fine, ma, just fell outta bed," he replies, heart pounding in his chest as he stares at the ceiling wild-eyed because what the _hell_.

Did he just-

Was he-

He can't even string a full thought together, too twisted up in his own head as he barely pays attention to his ma saying breakfast is ready, and ”You should really be getting ready if you're taking the bus today, hun."

He gives her an absent-minded "Yeah, yeah, just- I'll be there in a minute," and doesn't look under his bed for Sam's nest until he hears her pad away from his door.

The nest is a couple of frilly shirts he kept getting as gifts that 'mysteriously' disappeared, ended up scrunched and shredded to keep Sam comfortable. If it meant Jackson got to replace those shirts with ones he actually liked, that were less clingy and more baggy...well, that's not for his Aunt Shirley or ma to ever know. Plus, it'd been an easier way to work out his frustration than taking a long walk one Saturday, so it all turned out fine in the end.

"Sam, I swear I was floating just now. What the fuck?" He hisses, trying to keep quiet even as he's internally screaming in panic. He knew stuff was gonna be different with an alien around, but this wasn't like Sam teaching him Bossatronian to help with fragmented research. This wasn't like modifying the power cuff thing somehow so he could lift up his mattress with one hand to get Sam situated.

Sam somehow blinks sleepily, purrs and pops softly _'You don't have species feedback bleed-over?'_

"...Species _what_ now?" Jackson asks, all blood draining from his face and fear twisting his stomach. What has he gotten himself into?

(Agreeing to help Sam and keeping the cuff meant Sam could...affect him, for lack of a better term. This incident led to Jackson smuggling out a textbook from his health class for Sam to learn about human stuff more clearly, and a series of training sessions in the pecan groves to help him learn what Sam had been born with inherently.

Those sessions were the first tentative steps of the hero who would come to be known as Jackaboy Man.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. I wanted to include Sam, figure out Jackson's superhero origins, and have some fun because I read way too many comics and know too many origin stories to play with. Then I started slipping in more JSE references and...yeah. I can't wait to show him in proper hero mode later on.
> 
> Anyone who wonders why I keep bringing up Doom Patrol in my stories, I read the Grant Morrison run where it's a group of heroes, like the X-men, and someone described it as a group therapy session rather than a well-adjusted team. That stayed with me, and I liked it. I thought Jackson would like it too as he got older, even if he started with earlier issues that were more light-heated.
> 
> Next time: Our intrepid hero finally crosses paths with the mysterious Mr. Graves, with Jackson hot on the trails of a certain thief and Bertram trying to find where his latest vision plays out.


	3. I've Got This Suspicion, This Conviction Something's Shifting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bertram Graves and Jackaboy Man cross paths for the first time, and Marvin gets hit in the process.  
> It's not the best start, but what a way for everything to begin.
> 
> Chapter title from I Made A Promise To The Moon by Jason Webley.

The first time they cross paths is in an alleyway, on an overcast day with a subtle wrongness to it. Like the world shifted two inches to the left when you weren't looking, or the colors of things seem to be tweaked. Someone you recall having blue eyes suddenly has brown, or a room you know like the back of your hand suddenly gained an extra inch to its size.

It's the day Jackaboy Man is in hot pursuit of a jewel thief claiming to be a magician, and Bertram Graves is taking a walk to pinpoint the location of his latest vision.

Two things should be noted, however, to explain the following events.

When Bertram isn't narrating, or in the grips of a vision, he is considered legally blind and tends to use a solid wooden cane. It also aids him on the days where his various scars are acting up, and he needs the extra support. The jewel thief Jackaboy Man is chasing is Marvin the Magnificent, who happens to be just as loud and boisterous as his heroic counterpart. This was before Marvin turned over a new leaf, and his awareness at the time was focused solely on taunting the hero lagging a few steps behind.

Which meant Marvin isn't looking when Bertram stops at the end of the alleyway, cocks his head to the side as he hears Jackaboy yell "Get back here, thief!" with Marvin yelling back “Try and get me, super loser!”

There's the familiar tickle of _déjà vu_ in the back of his skull that accompanies his visions as he tightens the grip on his cane, an almost out of body experience as he swings it out to the side and more or less clotheslines Marvin with solid oak. The magician falls onto his back with a good meaty thump, the wind knocked out of him and a sort of wheeze escaping his mouth as he scrambles for breath. The sack containing stolen goods has split open, spilling an assortment of gems, necklaces, rings, and even a watch or two over the dirty concrete, and they glitter like shards of broken Christmas baubles among the litter and trash.

It's not the first time Bertram's visions have resulted in such an act, lined themselves up so perfectly as briefly he can see, but normally...

Well, normally he doesn't end up face-to-face with a hero afterwards, besides Silver Shepherd on the occasion where the proper authorities had to be notified to handle the injured or further arrests.

(One of the few things he has left besides his gift and his work is his anonymity, and if it means Silver gets the credit then he'll gladly let the man take it every time.)

"Holy shi- I mean, thanks, citizen, for assisting in this arrest. Marvin here's a real slippery one." Jackaboy says, and in the fleeting moments where Bertram's visions replace sight he can see it so clearly: the man in bright primary red with a cobalt blue mask outstretching his hand in greeting, eyes green as fresh grass and acidic neon green hair falling over his forehead, eyebrows and facial hair the same unnatural shade. Smiling warmly at Bertram, as if they're friends rather than strangers who met by sheer accident, and from there everything blanks out once more with just the occasional flicker to work with.

It's enough for him to still work off of though, take Jackaboy's hand into his own like he can still see, and give it a firm shake. When he leans his weight on his cane a moment later and it doesn’t buckle, he can’t help but smile slightly. He’ll have to thank Ed later for such masterful work, able to withstand such wear and tear as only his old bat was usually capable of.

"I just happened to be passing by, luckily enough. You're that hero, aren't you? Jack something or other, Jack B. Nimble? Spring-heeled Jack?" Bertram asks, playing it off as if he's just some man who barely pays attention to the news, so saturated as it is with various supers and gifted. How would he be able to explain listening to Silver Shepherd gush over the fact Jackaboy had both strength _and_ flight, or overheard Minerva wondering idly who patched him up in the aftermath of the most recent showdown?

Jackaboy laughs, a ridiculously charming sound, and says with a cheeky salute "Jackaboy Man, at your service, Mister...?"

"Krüger," He lies easily, because in the end he is the Host just as once he was the Author, as he still is Bertram Graves. Why his vision led him here he might never know, but his full name will never be in a police report if he can help it. _Especially_ if Tinsdale and Sinclair had decided to report their experiences, considering his appearance hadn’t changed that much in the last few years.

"Mr. Krüger, thanks for the assist, but try to avoid further involvement, yeah? Not all guys will be taken down so easily, or be so safe." Jackaboy replies, getting Marvin over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes easily. In his other hand he picks up the sack of jewelry, lifting it as easily as a loaf of bread without a sweat. From anyone else the words would be condescending, but from the hero there's genuine care and concern in his voice.

(Something about the man in the trench coat, with dark sunglasses and a golden streak in his hair, sticks in Jackson's head a long time after that meeting. Something that he can't put his finger on, familiar yet distant. Then his favorite game show comes on, Hire My Ass, and whatever it is can wait.

Does Matt get the editing job or what?!?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't get the image out of my head of them meeting like this. Jackson in full-on super mode, and Bertram low-key working to figure out 'Why do I meet this super, what's so important about this??'  
> And the comment about HMA at the end? Couldn't resist poking fun at Jackson's observation skills. The only reason he doesn't know about Marvin yet is because he's never seen the thief without his cat mask. 
> 
> That'll be a fun realization moment...


End file.
